


One foot in the grave

by dreams_for_spring



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Typical Violence, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Halloween fic!, Horror, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon comes back from the dead, Jon was a paramedic, Magic, Mystery, Sansa is in medical school, alternating povs, because I can't help but play around in some oldschool Halloween tropes, canon typical death, just a little bit of campiness, kind of a zombie fic?, sexual content in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27010492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreams_for_spring/pseuds/dreams_for_spring
Summary: “I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to see this part,” Sansa whispers numbly, letting her fingers fall once more into the pleats of her dress.“You have to.” Arya gives her a soft look then; it’s a pleading one too, as if to say that the sooner Sansa joins the crowd, the sooner they can go home. And there is some truth to her practicality – enough that she walks forward to the priest and his mound of dirt, to his makeshift podium and the notes that he has written upon a piece of loose-leaf and shoved into his bible.Jon, Sansa thinks as she comes to a halt at the front of the crowd.His name was Jon. He was the love of my life, and I was going to marry him next spring.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 87
Kudos: 122





	1. Hallowed Ground

**Author's Note:**

> The concept here is like a Pet Semetery/ Zombie Boyfriend idea, but with heavy Work Song by Hozier vibes. It’s going to be a mix of horror, mystery, and just enough campiness that I laugh a bit (hopefully you do too), especially after this rather morose first chapter. This is my first foray into horror/mystery, so I hope it goes okay =)
> 
> Questionable morality incoming, in that this will have a happy ending, but this is a horror/Halloween story so that’s going to come at a price. Dark!Jon; not OOC, but a possible post-resurrection type personality. This probably won’t be nearly as dark as I’m making it out to be, but I’d like to cover my bases.
> 
> Trigger warning for first chapter: description of a funeral and loss of a fiancé. After that, later chapters have trigger warnings for violence and death (canon typical)
> 
> Thank you @chocolateghost for helping me brainstorm a (much) better title! <3

Wintertown Cemetery is not large by any means, but it is as old as the Stark family themselves. Sansa Stark’s father is buried here, and his father’s father, and so on for more generations they have ever been able to count.

It winds over the hills that surround the town, hugging the roadway in some places, and delving deep into the Wolfswood in others. It is marked on all sides by stone fences, and those fences also mark the boundaries of the largest weirwood grove anyone is Westeros has ever seen.

Sansa remembers coming to clean her grandfather’s grave each fall when she was a little girl, her father holding open great big paper bags that she’d throw the leaves into. Then, later, she remembers coming to clean the leaves off her father’s grave, with her brothers and sister there to help.

It is like that today; the air is cold and brisk, and half the blood-red leaves are already sitting on the dull grey-green ground, the other half looking ready to fall at any time.

She readjusts the tight bun at the back of her head, tucking back stray auburn strands behind her ears. It will not do to look any more a mess today than she already does.

Her head tilts up and she watches the leaves fly about in the autumn wind, thin rays of sunlight peeking in and falling across her face as they dance. Deft fingers trace the pleats of her dresses’ skirt as it flies about in the breeze, tipping up to where they meet in fine stitches at her waist, then down to where they billow out wide at the knee.

She has only worn this dress once before; when her father passed away. 8 years later and she is wearing it again, at another funeral, and the thought of that makes her sick. She should have gone to the store and found a new one, should have pushed through all the sad looks and sympathetic words and left the house and gotten in her car and bought a new black dress.

Now, this dress seems to have become her designated funeral dress, which is a terrible thought in and of itself. It seems somehow to cheapen both her father’s memory and this one too. She’s had it for so long anyway that it sits awkwardly on her body, simultaneously too short and too tight and too childish in a way that makes her mother quietly click her tongue against the back of her front teeth whenever her gaze moves to Sansa.

It shouldn’t even matter because a heavy trench coat covers most of the dress and no one can really see it unless they’re looking to. Except today everyone is looking at her, in her dress that does not fit, and her heels that are too high and keep sinking into the cold, wet ground of the cemetery, and the way it makes her sway with each step as though she is half-drunk.

 _Maybe this would all be easier if I were_ , she thinks, distantly.

Sansa tightens her grip around her mother’s arm, fingers going white from the cold and the strain. Her mother gives her a sympathetic look this time and wraps her arm around her, taking the weight off the heels and keeping them level on the ground.

She flashes her mother a small smile, and her mother only nods, eyebrows furrowed as her mind whirrs ahead a half hundred steps. Her face remains placid, fine lines of wrinkles pulled tight and eyes wide and vividly watching the scene before them.

This has always been Catelyn Stark’s way – to plan and prepare for every problem and create solutions for each one. She is the kind of woman who wears her age with grace; who wears raising five children as a badge of honour, and who did not shed a single tear at her husband’s funeral, instead tending to her children who could not stop. It is a kind of bravery that is silent, yet says more than most people ever could.

Sansa tries to tell herself that she will be that same kind of brave today, and for all the lonely days to come.

“Sansa,” Arya hisses under her breath, walking towards them through the long lines of tombstones. “You’re late.”

She dips her head down towards her younger sister, whose eyes are dark and sharp and never miss a beat. She has their father’s eyes, where Sansa got their mother’s. Sometimes it’s hard to look at Arya, because she reminds her of him too much.

“I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to see this part,” Sansa whispers numbly, letting her fingers fall once more into the pleats of her dress. She must look half a child like this, indolent and ignoring the dozens of people gathered here, waiting for her arrival from the church.

“You have to.” Arya takes a place on Sansa’s other side and squeezes her hand. She gives a soft look then; it’s a pleading one too, as if to say that the sooner Sansa joins the crowd, the sooner they can go home. And there is some truth to her practicality – enough that she walks forward to the priest and his mound of dirt, to his makeshift podium and the notes that he has written upon a piece of loose-leaf and shoved into his bible.

 _Jon_ , Sansa thinks as she comes to a halt at the front of the crowd. _His name was Jon, and he was the love of my life, and I was going to marry him next spring._

Now she would be fine if winter lasted for the rest of her life.

She hates that this priest still needs a piece of paper to remember Jon’s name even after the funeral, hates that she is here in this terrible dress that fits her like a tourniquet, slowly seeping the oxygen from her body. She hates the way that she can see everyone’s faces, how pale they all look here in black too, how sad and sympathetic they are with their furrowed eyebrows and their twisted, tightly held hands fisted up like balls beside their torsos.

She hates that the casket is closed, and that she cannot say goodbye properly; that it’s a light brown instead of the dark, heady oak that she could not afford. She hates that almost married is not married and she had to fight tooth and nail to have him buried in the family cemetery at all.

Her heels sink lower into the ground as the man speaks, but she doesn’t hear a word he says. The people in the crowd watch her, then watch the casket begin to slowly lower into the hole. She watches the crowd then too – it’s easier than watching the casket, than knowing that soon Jon will be gone.

Like this, it still feels half-permanent, and even though his body is cold, it is still here at least. By later tonight it’ll all be done, and then she knows it will truly feel like he is gone.

She stiffens her jaw and holds the top of her tongue to the roof of her mouth, and it’s enough to keep the tears at bay. There had been no waterproof mascara in the house this morning, and she will not make a scene.

Arya’s hand reaches out to hold hers; it’s a surprising gesture from her sister who seems at times colder and harder than ice. Sansa is surprised to feel a plastic bottle touch her palm, and Arya leans over.

“S’for later, for however long you need it,” she whispers, closing Sansa’s fingers round the bottle. She swallows hard and puts it in her trench’s pocket. They will be having words later about this, but for now she is too preoccupied in keeping up appearances to chastise her little sister. It will do little good anyway, she’s sure.

Jon’s co-workers stand off to the side, politely watching the scene unfold. She’s met them all at the post-shift parking lot beers, at the backyard barbeques and pool parties over the years.

She watches Ygritte stifle tears with a small quiver of her chin, while Sam brushes tears from his eyes, hushing his newborn babe and cradling his wife with another arm. Off to their left, Ramsay and Tormund stand, hands clasped diligently in front of them.

They were the closest to Jon, she knows. Tormund trained Jon when he was a rookie paramedic, fresh out of school, and Ramsay was his partner; they rode together every shift. Ramsay’s eyes meet her own for just a second, before they tear away and go back to the casket. He frowns and starts chewing at his lip as it begins to lower into the ground.

Her eyes fall upon Jon’s mother, Lyanna Snow, who has thick tear streaks across her cheeks. They glint and catch in the light, and even in her tears she is beautiful; graceful too. It’s something she will never be, Sansa knows.

The winches have slowed to a stop and the straps are being lifted. The coffin stays behind.

* * *

Later, when all her family is already in their black limos and headed for the old Winterfell estate, Jon’s co-workers come by and shake her hand one by one. Ramsay is last in line, and she cannot help but note that he has neatly combed and tied his dark hair back today, that he wears an immaculately tailored suit, when normally he doesn’t even iron his uniform.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he intones with a painful level of vulnerability that makes his pale eyes swim like whirlpools in a gorge. “He was my partner, and it – it should be me that’s dead instead.”

Ramsay frowns then, wide lips pressed tightly together, face a mask of something Sansa cannot discern. Ramsay and Jon had met in Dreadfort, both had gone to school together, had ridden together every shift. There was no one in the world who knew Jon better than Ramsay, or vice versa, they’d always said with smiles. Jon’s had never seemed quite as wide as Ramsay’s though.

Ygritte flashes Tormund a warning look, and before Sansa can reply, his arm is pulled tight round Ramsay’s, and he’s leading the man back to the cavalcade of cars. “We’ll see you around at the hospital when you start your clerkship next year, right?” Ramsay calls out over his shoulder, as Tormund’s bushy eyebrows push together and he gives her a sympathetic look.

Sansa’s face pales at the thought of going back there ever again.

“If there’s ever anything you need–“ Ygritte says quickly to change the subject, but Sansa pulls her tight in and hugs her, letting herself put off thinking about school and clerkships and Wintertown Hospital for just a little bit longer.

“You’ve done enough,” Sansa manages to sniffle out, “truly.”

When she lets Ygritte go, Ygritte’s face is tight and pinched, small nose wrinkled to look even smaller. She pushes her thick red hair behind her ears and fixes Sansa with a serious look. “You’re part of the family. You’ve been ever since Jon brought you in to meet us; and you will be forever, no matter what. Night or day, just let me know.”

Sansa nods dimly, and Ygritte walks off with Sam and his wife, taking a turn holding the little baby in her arms. It coos and grabs at Ygritte’s thumb, and Sansa is left to watch them, alone.

Jon had wanted kids as soon as they were married and she had been done residency, and she had too – two boys and a girl. They’d planned it all out so carefully.

Her stomach twists violently and she doubles over in pain, hand splayed out over the rough stone edge of Jon’s tombstone.

When she can finally see again, she is knelt down in front of it, knees covered in cold, soft dirt, the tombstone looming large before her.

They’d waited two days for the funeral, waited for Jon’s mother to be able to fly into town. They couldn’t wait another; the priest had said.

It’s like a terrible joke, to be buried on Halloween, she thinks, and even though everyone has shushed her and told her it doesn’t matter, she knows that it does and that she should have fought harder for Jon, for his memory.

If he’s looking down on her now, she thinks for a second that he’d be disappointed. He wouldn’t be though; Jon was always careful and kind with her. He’d probably laugh and tell her to lean into it, to make the epitaph a joke. She’ll leave it to his mother though; let her make that decision at least.

Her eyes tilt up to the heavens, and she wonders if he’s found his father where he is now, and if her father is there as well.

For a brief moment, she wishes she could be there too.

A raven flies up high above her and lets out a mournful call, pushing a shiver down her spine. It lands in a nearby weirwood and preens at its midnight-coloured feathers with a beak near as dark.

“That was a stupid thought,” she whispers aloud. “I wish you’d come back here instead.”

The raven caws as though in answer, and takes off, flying past the cemetery, past the weirwoods and the stone fence, past the long, winding road that leads to Winterfell. She watches it long after it is a mere speck in the sky, and she isn’t certain if she’s just imagining its existence anymore.

“Look at you – you’ve ruined your tights.”

She turns to see her mother behind her; weary, dark blue eyes jumping from the soft dirt to her beige tights that will never be beige again. Behind those wide eyes, her mother is calculating how long it will take to go to the drugstore and buy another pair, and if they’ll have time before the wake.

For the first time since they’ve entered the cemetery, she feels herself begin to cry. There is nothing elegant or dainty about it, and the tears come in great, heaving gasps. Black teardrops begin to fall upon the tombstone before her.

Catelyn Stark walks over to her, and hoists her up from under the shoulders like she is a ragdoll, gesturing for Arya to come help. In the distance, her brothers Robb and Rickon and Bran stand there watching the scene unfold, shadows of black wool with strips of white button-up beneath.

Her last coherent thought as she is carried to the waiting black limo is of Jon’s face; storm-grey eyes that looked almost black in the night, crow’s feet that formed in the corners of his eyes on the rare moments when he truly laughed, and a smile that could brighten her darkest days.

The tombstone seems to drink in her mascara-stained tears, staining the stone a darker shade of grey. They remain there long after she has left, a mottled patchwork of salt that dries and crystallizes, to be replaced over time by moss.

* * *

One Year Later

Sansa kicks closed the rear driver’s side door of her car, hands full of grocery bags. The plastic handles dig and nip at the skin of her palms. The door closes with a slam that is a little bit too loud for the time of night, and the sound echoes along the empty side street, making her cringe slightly. She presses the lock button on the key in her chain, hearing the telltale chirp of the old sedan as she walks towards her small row townhouse.

It’s Halloween night, and the air is cold and unforgiving. Even despite that, the sounds of children laughing and screaming in delight can be heard far off in the distance.

The sounds fill her with a strange combination of longing and apprehension; a strange reminder of Jon’s funeral and wake last year, of a night coated in Arya’s Ambien, and dreams that felt a whole lot more like nightmares now.

She thinks that the rest of her life could be spent in this way; comparing and contrasting each event to those that came before, to the life she was supposed to have instead of the one she has now. She had been told that when a loved one is taken away suddenly, it takes longer to heal and rebuild. Sometimes it feels as though that will never happen, and in other moments she is terrified by the thought that it will, as though to move on would mean to forget him – as if she ever could.

She lets out a heavy sigh and climbs the steps up to the cherry red door. Jon had painted it that colour last year when they first moved in together, into what was supposed to be their starter home. 3 bedrooms that would soon be filled, and then they’d move into the next one and fill it too.

Instead, each night when she comes home, it is only her and Jon’s husky, Ghost, and the sounds of the television as it drones on late into the night for company.

Her keys jingle and stick in the stubborn, old lock, and she curses in frustration. Jon had said that he would change the locks, would fix the windows and the leaky pipes. He’d said he’d do so many things, and a year later she still cannot bring herself to get someone else to do them.

“Fuck, shit, fuck,” she curses as she loses control of a bag and it spills out over the concrete steps. Tins of tomato paste roll into the bushes, a frozen dinner bursts open and sits sadly at the base of the steps.

 _That can be dealt with tomorrow_ , she thinks, reaching to grab the handle.

The door creaks slowly open, and she deposits the rest of the bags in the vestibule, before guilt rears it’s head and she goes to pick up the fallen items from underneath the bushes where they’ve rolled. When she’s done, she turns on the light, and realizes that one of her hands is covered in dirt.

“It’s from the tins of tomato paste,” she whispers absently, wiping it away with her other, surprisingly clean one. She can see the dirt on the doorknob though, and her heart sinks low in her chest as frustration gives way to a nervous sort of apprehension.

She brings her hand to her face and breathes in. It’s an old smell; heavy and peaty, thick, rich soil that is rare to find these days.

A strange tingle runs down her spine, and she is suddenly, acutely aware that she is not alone. That normal silence that she finds so deafening is sparked by something else, something foreign and electric, as though the air itself is alive.

She wants to run, wants to reach into her pocket and grab her phone and dial 911, but another voice tells her she is overreacting, that it’s a prank by one of the neighbour’s kids and nothing is wrong.

“Ghost?” She calls out into the townhouse, and it seems to absorb the word, as though the air is fog through which nothing can pass. He lets out the smallest whine in response, and then her own fear is taken over by fear for Ghost. A thousand terrible images from slasher films fill her mind, and she reaches down to pick up the heaviest bag for some semblance of protection.

She takes step after tentative step forward through the hallway into the house, listening for the sound of his whines. “Ghost?” She asks once more, but now her voice sounds hollow and small, foreign to her own ears.

As her eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, she sees that dirty shoeprints that have stained the carpet below her. She needs to stop, needs to turn back and run. If Ghost is in danger, then so is she.

Except, even though she is afraid, there is another feeling there too. It’s as if all she can do is take step after step, as though she is upon a conveyor belt following the dirt like a trail to the living room, where a thin stream of light is flooding into the hallway.

She peeks round the corner into the living room, to the couch that faces away from her, and towards a television mounted above the fireplace against the wall. Ghost’s tail is hanging over the armrest, lazily wagging back and forth.

Beside him she can see the back of a man's head, hair a half-black mess of mud and tangles in the dim light of the room. She looks down to see the trail of dirty shoeprints end at the couch, knows that they belong to this man who has broken into her house, and now sits quietly as though he's been waiting for her.

“He’s not allowed on the couch,” she says weakly, for lack of anything else coherent to say.

 _Run, run, RUN_ , a voice in her head screams, but somehow it’s call is quieter than before. She takes another step forward, holding the bag tighter in her hands.

“You know I never could say no to him,” the man responds with a voice that is dry as dust, and so painfully familiar that it makes her drop the groceries. A jar of salsa breaks open on the floor, coating it red and covering it with shards of glass.

At that, he turns around slightly on the couch, and light from the tableside lamp catches his face. She gasps as it reveals the arch of his cheekbones, the short, cropped beard that she had begged him to shave a thousand times because it scratched her when they kissed.

“Jon,” she cries out, voice cracking as she does. Her eyes trail from his head to his chest. Everything is covered in the same dirt as on the doorknob. His fingernails are bloody and raw, and he’s still wearing the suit she picked out for him on the day of his funeral.

 _This isn’t Jon,_ that same voice in her mind says, even though she can smell his cologne in the air, old and mixed with the peaty smell of dirt. _This can’t be Jon._

He gives her the saddest smile she has ever seen, lips curled unnaturally upwards at the edges. His eyebrows are upturned in deference or confusion, she cannot be certain.

“It’s good to see you, Sans.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the rating is currently M but let me know if you'd like to see that bump up to E as the story progresses and I’ll see what I can do!
> 
> Story will likely be 5 chapters based on my outline, and there is no way I’ll finish by Halloween but at least one of my chapters will coincide with the Jonsa Halloween event, and I’ll try my best to write quickly. Let me know what you think so far! =)


	2. A Rational Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to run, Jon tries to catch her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading and for your incredibly encouraging comments so far! Knowing that people are enjoying what I’m writing definitely helps me to keep up momentum =)

The man that sits on Jon and Sansa’s couch, that has one of his bloody-knuckled hands ruffling through Jon’s dog’s fur, that looks like Jon and even sounds exactly like him – the man that absolutely, cannot be Jon – stands and takes a step towards her. Clumps of half-dried mud fall from the suit she buried him in as he does, except that it cannot be the suit she buried him in, because dead men don’t come back to life.

“No,” she says, voice high and wavering in her throat. She takes a step back, holding her palm out as though that alone could stop whoever this man is.

He frowns then, and it’s like a dark shadow passes over, like when the moon becomes covered by dark storm clouds. His feet pause in place and he does not take another step. 

“No,” she repeats once more, the palm of her hand still awkwardly pushed out in front of her. “This can’t be happening.”

“I thought you’d be happy to see me.” He tilts his head in a sort of muted curiousity that almost looks like hurt. His eyes fall upon her outstretched hand and his frown only deepens.

An alarm in her head begins to scream so loud she can barely concentrate, and that same voice from before telling her to run has come back in full force.

“I don’t even know – how can you be here, how can you be you?” Sansa stutters near incomprehensibly as she takes another step backward. It’s like her mouth and her mind have entered upon two separate tracks, and she is only dimly aware of what she is saying.

Her mind is tucked away somewhere else, counting the steps to the front door, then the steps to the car, and figuring out whether she can fumble with her fob in time to get the car door open.

If she runs as fast as she can, she thinks she can make it out the door in ten seconds, press the fob in her pocket and open the car in another twenty.

She has to hope it’s fast enough.

This time when she speaks, her voice is clearer, and her mind is too. “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, but Jon – Jon is dead.”

“Well mostly, I suppose. But not entirely, not anymore.” He gives her a wry smile, as though expecting her to laugh, but instead his eyes open wide in surprise as she bursts into a run towards the front door.

She doesn’t hear him follow after her, doesn’t take the time to look. She focuses on her footfalls, on the door that’s now in reach. Her body is not used to sprinting, to the rapid pulling of cold muscle, and the sudden, painful expansion of her lungs. She ignores the sharp stings and imagines the doorknob, imagines twisting it open and running down the stairs, imagines pushing on the fob in the pocket of her jeans–

Before she can finish her thought, she feels the heat of him behind her, gaining fast. By the time she has reached the door, he is tucked up right behind her, and there is no space into which it can open. For an instant, she can feel the shape of him against her back, the tickle of his close-cropped beard against the small of her neck. He smells like the earth – like rich, dark soil that is as old as time itself. 

“I'm sorry," he says then, voice low and pricked with fear and guilt. “It's just, I came here for you. I came back for you. Please don’t run away.”

He pulls himself away from her quickly, and she takes advantage of the space to turn around and face him. The expression he has is one of self-reproach and confusion, and it's so strange to see the features of Jon's face pulled in this way, by this man who seems simultaneously terrified and unhinged. If this is really Jon though – if it could somehow, actually be him – then he might have every reason to be.

“Who are you?” she breathes, voice still hoarse from the exertion on her lungs. "What do you want?"

His hands fall to the swell of her hips, and his body sits tight against hers. She knows that she should be scared by this man’s touch, but instead it feels strangely comforting in it's familiarity, and that too gives her hope. His hands begin to trace gently up the sides of her shirt, as though tracing the lines of a memory.

She feels her breath catch in her lungs; heat rises high upon her cheekbones.

“I'm sorry Sans," he repeats. "I don't understand what's happening. I just – please believe me, it’s me, it’s really me.” His hands come to rest within her own, dirt and blood rough against the pads of her fingers.

She finally looks up into his eyes, and even though her mind is still screaming at the impossibility of it all, something else leaps up within her as she gazes into them, transfixed. Half of her falls giddy at the sight of Jon looking back at her; ready to accept that maybe, finally the universe has righted itself, has seen fit to give Jon back to her.

The other half is certain that the gods are not so gracious.

His hands pull hers upwards and sink them down underneath the wool of his suit jacket. They come to rest high upon his chest, on top of his once white button-up, now stained brown with dirt. He is warm underneath his jacket, and the fresh blood on his knuckles is dull and half-clotted already. She’ll need to scrub them properly to get all the dirt out, her mind thinks idly.

But there is something else, something that is missing, and she can’t quite put her finger upon it.

The man who cannot be Jon waits and says nothing, and instead she focuses on the curious rhythm of his breaths. They seem staccatoed, haphazard and harsh; as though his heart must be beating out of his chest – except it’s not.

She moves her hands around, trying to feel a faint beat between the rapid expansions of his chest, but it never comes. One hand moves quickly to just beside his windpipe, two fingers tucked neatly under the square of his jaw. This is something she has done hundreds of times before, on hundreds of different people.

When she first started in medical school, Jon had taught her how to check his pulse, had held her fingers in all the places of his body until she felt the familiar push of his arteries against his skin.

Sansa waits, but she doesn’t feel anything at all this time. “That’s impossible, you should be–“

“–Dead?” Jon interjects, his face implacable.

“This doesn’t make any sense. You can’t be here, you can’t be standing and breathing and talking, not when your heart isn’t beating.”

His blood should be thick, clotted from lack of movement, heavy in his veins. There should not be blood on his knuckles, or air in his lungs. He should be dead – not standing and breathing and talking in a voice that is growing steadily, like a record player warming up.

He lets out a great sigh, as though he is a child and she is an adult who can’t seem to understand that his imaginary friend is real. If she wasn’t feeling his bare skin upon her own right now, she’d swear that that must be what he is – something imaginary, something incorporeal.

“It’s as I said. Not quite dead anymore, but not quite alive either.”

He raises her hand then and presses a light kiss to her palm. His lips are dry against her skin, but they are warm. He should be cold, should be buried deep below ground. Sansa shudders at the thought. Thin images reel by her mind from anatomy lessons – of cadavers in various states of decay – before she can push them out.

 _This can’t be Jon_ , she repeats one last time, because she knows where Jon is. She knows what he should look like after a year underground, and yet he doesn’t. Instead, he is standing here in their foyer, his body warm against hers, his breath hot on her cheek, and a dark, exasperated look upon his face. _But what other possibility is there?_

She examines him carefully, eyes roaming across him, noting every mole in place, but the scar above his left eye is no longer there. She pushes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves – his eyes lift in interest as she does, and she feels the heat on her cheeks return.

The scar on his elbow from the time they tried rollerblading is gone too. She traces the space where it once was. The skin here is as unnaturally pale as everywhere else, but supple and soft like the skin beneath a sunburn. It’s as though he has been healed, remade better than before.

“If you’re really Jon, where was our first date?”

He lifts his hand up carefully and pushes a lock of her hair back behind her ear, letting the stray ends flow from the space between his thumb and forefinger. “In the Wintertown library. You told me you needed to study and couldn’t be wasting your time chasing boys. I brought you a picnic and laid it out on the table in front of you.” He smiles then at the memory. “You told me that it didn’t change anything, but you were grinning when you said it, and when I told you I was happy just to sit there and watch you study, you blushed and took a sandwich.”

Sansa closes her eyes tight to dispel tears that threaten to burst forth.

“And what was our first dance going to be to?” Her voice sounds foreign to her ears; a wavering reed in gale force wind.

“Can’t help falling in love. You’ve always been a sucker for the classics.”

“You said you wanted it too.”

“I did, Sans,” he replies softly. “I really did. But I would’ve danced to anything if it meant dancing with you.”

Her heart aches from his words, from his dark stare, from the sudden realization of how close he is to her. His body is taut against her, like every muscle has been stripped away and replaced with something twice as strong. He feels heavy and warm against her, familiar as ever, and she can feel her resistance begin to wane.

If the man before her can have no heartbeat and be alive, then why can’t he be Jon?

It’s a maddening thought, one that clashes against everything she knows. She is not a child any longer, and any magic that she once believed in has been burned away and replaced with the truth.

“Jon,” she whispers, once she has finally cleared her head. “Wait here for a minute, I need to get something.”

He gives her an inscrutable look as his body disentangles from hers. “How do I know you won’t try to run again?”

“You’ll have to trust me,” she says over her shoulder, as she moves to climb the steps to their bedroom. He smiles then, but he looks afraid too.

She grabs her stethoscope, a penlight, a thermometer, and a blood pressure cuff. Alive or dead – whatever he is – she is determined to figure it out.

* * *

Jon waits for her at the bottom of the stairs, trying to measure his breaths. They aren’t necessary, not really, but forcing his lungs to expand and contract makes him feel just a little more alive, and a little less… whatever he really is.

His mind is still hazy, as though he’s blacked out and only just come to. He hates that his mind is so scattered, that his body feels too large and simultaneously too small, his limbs barely under his own control. After so much darkness, for so long, this still doesn’t seem quite real; it’s why he needs Sansa close to remind him. 

When she comes down, she has half a medical kit bundled in her arms. Her eyebrows are furrowed together in concentration the way they always do when she sets herself to a task.

He watches her with interest, noting when she frowns and writes down something on the piece of paper beside her. She asks him questions that he can’t yet answer, because since he has woken up his only thought has been of getting to her. She asks him if he eats and drinks water, checks his reflexes, and capillary response.

When she is done, her face is screwed up in concentration, and she is sitting on the couch far too far away from him. All Jon can think about is how it felt to have her hands on his skin once more, and how much closer he needs her to be.

“You have no pulse,” she begins carefully, tapping the end of her pen against the paper that sits upon the coffee table. Her eyes are brilliant and sharply blue, sparkling as they do when she sets herself to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. He wants to lift her in his lap and bury his face in the long expanse of her hair; breathe her in to remember her, and forget all the rest. “No blood pressure either. But you eat and you drink, you’re 37C and your respiration is… almost normal.”

“So what’s my verdict then? Am I a zombie?” He tries to give her a smile, but her response is muted, and something almost like fear passes across her eyes.

“I don’t know what you are, I don’t understand how you’re here.”

Her eyebrows furrow further, and it makes him want to scream because they are wasting time. He could be memorizing every inch of her skin, tasting her tongue, drinking his fill before whatever this is inevitably ends – instead they sit here and try to quantify his particular brand of undead.

It’s like she’s missing the forest for the trees; doubting that he is real, that he came back just for her.

“Well, I promise I have no intention of dancing to Thriller,” he says, trying once more at humour. This time she gives him a small smile, before biting her lip in thought.

She stands then and begins to pace. “Everything has a rational explanation,” she repeats, reading her notes over and over again. “There’s just something I’m missing.”

“Not everything, not this.” He knows the explanation; at least enough of it to know that it isn’t rational.

She stops suddenly in her tracks and turns to him. “We need to go to the cemetery. We need to see your grave, see what hap–“

“–Absolutely not,” Jon interjects, and he is immediately remorseful, for she seems taken aback by his tone. He watches her take another painful step back, away from him, and curses himself for his inability to control his emotions, and himself.

He swallows hard, trying to push the memory from his mind. It’s still fresh, raw as his knuckles, pulling at his insides like a broken bone. He remembers waking up in that coffin, the lid bent concave from the weight of the dirt above. His nails had scratched against the polished wood interior, desperate to find purchase, to begin to slowly punch and scrape through. His only consolation seems to be that he hadn’t needed to breathe, that his heart had lagged behind the rest of him, silent and still.

It had taken hours, though he couldn’t say how long exactly. He began in pitch black, and ended in pitch black, when the wood finally gave way, and the dirt above began to seep in.

“Please Sansa,” he says, trying to hide the fear from his voice. “I’m not ready.”

Her face softens slightly. “It’s just, how will we know what’s going on if we don’t check…”

“The grave is empty,” he replies coldly. Behind the lids of his eyes is only dirt and eyes as dark as night, that will never stop staring until the debt is paid. “I crawled out of it myself.”

Shock paints across her face then as the realization hits her, and she sits back down beside him. She is silent then, her hands pulling his into her lap. She’s so cool against him, it’s like soothing a fever dream.

He tries to force the memory from his mind, replace it with this moment instead. He focuses on the feel of Sansa touching him once more, of the smell of her perfume; sweet and crisp and same as it ever was. He tries to memorize every piece of her. It is easier this time round now that he’s had practice; now that he knows all the small things that had faded first.

“That must have been terrifying,” she whispers, stroking his hands absentmindedly. He wants to lean over and kiss her, to tell her that everything is okay now that he's with her, but the smallest hint of fear still clings to her, and he knows she isn’t ready. He wishes once more that she could understand that he’s here on borrowed time.

“And yet not nearly as terrible as what came before,” he replies, distractedly. 

She shifts then to look directly at him, sharp eyes piercing through the fog. “So you remember? Where you were when you were gone?”

Jon pulls his hands from hers suddenly with a clenched jaw.

He pictures a haze of darkness; an endless, empty expanse.

“No,” he replies. The lie tastes bitter on his tongue.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I increased the total chapter count to 6 because I didn’t make it nearly as far as I should have with this chapter, yet it felt like the right place to stop it (and also helps me get the chapters out quicker). So we got a small glimpse into unJon's disjointed mind, and Sansa has satisfied her curiousity enough at least to believe that he's Jon. 
> 
> Next chapter we'll be delving a bit more into what Jon does and doesn't remember, and unfortunately Sansa still has to go to work - no rest for the wicked, or for med students lol
> 
> 💀, ♥, 🙅? Let me know what you think! Ps finding the Dark Jon balance is supremely difficult, so let me know if his characterization is too dark


End file.
